bones act like leaves blown


blood pressure

a couple days pass and I don’t write much during a visit from a friend and I am playing host, playing DVDs, cracking jokes, eating veg. thanksgiving food. my monitor is blotched up but I don’t get up from my chair to clear it. so here I am in early morning hours yawning, typing this, setting aside the book I’m reading [The Trial] to enter a few notes into this registry.

I put in four easy hours at work today. don’t think of much. things are in a haze. these are notes on whatever comes up. I prefer writing like this over talking into a mic for audio entries, but these days I do both.

Kafka is like this: the man approaches and enters a windowless room. he sees his friend over by the window, rushes to talk with him.

I have tremendous respect for Kafka. for years now I have demanded that everything is in the consciousness, the dream. the world exists on an unlimited number of dreams, and some are stuck on the same dream. so many things do not make sense because they are a part of an ever changing dream. one person dreams of God, another that God does not exist. and they are both right. when you let your heavy eyelids fall a new world rushes at you.

consider what I write to be a part of your blood pressure. I can scream this or whisper quietly. I can think to you what I know. you can feel what I know. I keep a close watch over vital signs.

sometimes waking up is crueler. by that I mean, you are injected, reloaded, back into a duller, more bland world. of course it is not always this way, but in comparison to what you dream . . .

the medicine making me groggy
drugged by
the drugs
dropping onto a body
a dead body twitching
bugs creep along
it is morning pitch black dark

. . .

hi, I am writing from a new standpoint. um, hi. nervousness. I don’t know what to say to some people. I mean, strangers. how do you break ice. my head is almost always blank. terrible at starting up conversations. years back, one kid I said hello to tried to start up a fight with me, but in the end acted like he was joking over the whole thing. it, too, was like a dream – hard to figure out. hard to decide what to do. so, hi, I come walking into this room writing sentences and you move around magnets on the refrigerator. I am keeping time on a stop watch just how much of it I have left for myself. but it is early morning, not a lunch break so rushed. hi, I like to walk up to stranger types. I’ve got questions for you about other people. here’s one: what do you think about people who get into ruts? you answer the following: I think it is a sad thing, but of course that is a patented answer. the sound of my voice just may summon a solid answer. big part of it is, when you can’t see beyond something, that’s where you get caught. over time you start settling. that’s what a rut is. so if you’re not happy there, that’s your rut. hi, what do you think? I think you should go to bed! I just came from there. well then, I think people’s ruts, or prisons, are imagined, that if you’re trapped in a room, all you have to do is get up and walk out. true, others are telling you also, that the door is locked, but you don’t have to believe them. I often dream I am back in high school. later in the dream I realize I have already graduated and don’t need to be there. still I am wandering around like a ghost. ah ha! I think this is exactly what a ghost feels like! attachments. maybe you haunt or dream continuously the same parts of your past because you wish to live them again differently.

draft from the window black panes

good morning again your hand into the bottom of this carved out pumpkin the day before thanksgiving and travels about, rising, falling, wind pipes, television shows, laughter, disappointment, expecting to drink water from a glass with no bottom. she receives a snake bite and dies on the dirt grown, face swollen, quiet last words. poison in her cheekbones. time to record what you can, put your hatred on the back burner, bowl a higher score, live passionately, not with blue lips, life gone, bat hanging upside down, bite a dog, reek havoc on mother and son, expect an end. captors, camp fires, gladstone tires. four or five nights and a row now I consistently cannot breathe not like I should, mountains, not mole hills.

umbrella shelter from downpour but still poor, still damp. sailing. trip with your dad in your memory. got lost at an air show, planes flew overhead, you cried, panicked. think back on all the places you’ve called home, and they were home, then. then again, tossing and turning. discomfort. pea under the bottom mattress, ten beneath. the princess kissed the prince. a war started, an electrical storm. bloodshed over snow. date in a movie theater based on a true story with a twist, the director’s prerogative.

chill over
nighttime bones
from the window
black panes
alien eyes large
a myth a tv show
an absolute wacko
in the morning
like it or not
an area
gets shot up
emotions cannot cope
flare for
the irrational
full town decision
new rules
what you wear
must listen to
and enforce hymns
sponsored by soda vendors
garbage in and out
a mechanism
don’t ask questions

monkey clangs his symbols
blank thought encouraged
you saw and were
burned by lights in the night
where does
this lead?

he tried to find a
safe place in himself
where he could
reason well again
but it’s true
as she said truth:
sickness is deeper
than coughing
and loss of sleep

crushed seeds
cursed lately with lemons
crunched ice cubes
in yellowed teeth

winter begins with leaves
hits heavy with snow
father hits
with belt
so you get
an upbringing

I would like to
trade in my tradition
much, much better

but I can feel you
staring at me
that we don’t speak
the same language
but the currency
is the same

make prayers payable to the entire chest

due to the circumstances I’m afraid to say I make a poor student if I choose to put off all the blame on the circumstances, but the other thing in the way becomes my overall lack of desire as we make our way deeper into the course. I simply loose interest and everything is downhill from there. I become that aerodynamic side view mirror in test labs – the wind shoots up over me, the wind shoots down below me. I turn off the learning switch.

then I send a note to tomorrow night’s teacher that I will not be in class and this is not a lie. I am sick to death and it’s killing me.

so tonight, a breathe of fresh air. burdened less. I’ve got a whole Unicron weighing down on me. a breathe without having to think about it. a dream. a million dollars.

down to

tea drinker

good thoughts
equal prayer
equal praise
you come
out of this one alive
you come out
of this one better

the thought of you
hit by a car
makes me want
to drive
5 miles an hour

pour me oh pour me pour me tee. hot that loosens. glad landscapes. endeavored small businesses. distinct districts. evolved enclaves. naive knaves. home of braver braves. septum rings. spatula flip flap jacks. holding chest. make prayers payable to the entire chest. I need to breathe again. then I can think straight about walking without limping again, walking upright straight here to there and back again.

. . .

boiling water on the stove
and thinking about
taking break from things
but diving headlong
into writing
doing more of this at least
moving around in it

million dollar dreams

boiling water and
parts of me getting

if by natural means I
can open my chest up
I can sleep a somewhat full night
and have a decent
OS X experience in the morning

. . .

I have figured out that doctors basically don’t know what the hell they’re doing. the complexities of the human body are way beyond them. they are utterly baffled and mostly speculate. they are doing the best they can, but I think being a doctor simply means being an apprentice. the body is a universe. you move through piecing together what you understand of a universe. lost in space.

. . .

easy to imagine now dying short of breath. the desperation one feels. the insanity of not being able to breathe. the need. begging for relief. the jealousy. after wrecking the room, curling up in a fetal position passed out, passed away. the big question is, “what’s next?” purgatory? brahma-loka? lower? a downgrade? the insect world? what will happen to you in the first five minutes after you leave your body? what will have surpassed in the first hour? will the concept of time be the same? will you have the same watch on your subtle body arm? will you be tortured or be forced to solve games of logic in order to get to the next level? is God really harsh and an angry guy with us, or are we just abused by the anger of others? open questions…

. . .

word pad. (word pad is where I write out random words for whatever reason, because I enjoy it and insist on it because I enjoy it.)

word glad. word town. green. decorative art. teacher in front of class. word investigatory. stationed in trenches. guns all night. computer gatherings. talk about talking. this. worry. town again. what about it? Grandin area is cool with its revived theatre. roanoke still tool small. two people, two cats, outgrow a town. do we miss busses, trains, almost getting in fights on trains, encountering men masturbating on trains? we had to get the hell out of there. now we have to get the hell out of here. see where word pad takes you.

samurai slice your whole form up into blocks because that whole way is war and civilizations just haven’t grown tired of war yet. chest panicked. vacuum dust out of the air. hair care. rhyme can sometimes be an easy way out, of making associations. sword. word sad. word had. he “had” her. shagged. offed. knifed. gunned away. taken away. gunned down. he sent her to prison. who will take care of the kids. you are punctual to job interviews. read straight news. oh yeah, jackson, another tower falls. dust in my lungs.

questions across lines. yawning. Yanni. that guy. foldgers crystals. crystal meth. other family members can’t stay out of court because of shoplifting, easy and not so easy escapes to other planes, having to be brought back. drinking coffee having no alternative but to watch Rosie O’Donnell while on your StairMaster starts to get to you. lost sleep at night.

word inventory. a graveyard shift counting of things. word tag. word fag. the end of the smoked stalk. balked. jeans washed in the drier. story- wrecking ball slips up and hits wrong house, 90 year-old woman does not notice, inhales the dust though, soon thereafter dies of pneumonia. roanoke chronicles. start from something small develop something chronic. you are jealous of those smoking chronic. yes. yes. don’t say no.
no, yes. chronic conditions. goodnight, goodnight, wherever you are.

weekend events

a headache has developed lonely saturdaynight/morning/sunday. realized earlier that last night I actually over did it on the medicine, took 8 tablespoons in one shot instead of 2. it did in fact clear my chest right up, but also sent me to the moon. I’m still recovering from it. and a cough is starting to come back. though I’ve been bedridden for nearly 24 hours, I’m tired again and must return.

“drunk,” “high”

I’m on the most insane “trip” right now. since I left, I hit up CVS for some extra strength cold medicine. the pharmacist recommend I down it and drink some tea afterwards. “it’ll open you right up.” well, it worked with flying colors. but I am also groggiest bastard on the planet right now, can’t even walk straight. the room spins. not looking at the keyboard to type this. I have also been awake but having what I call surface dreams, and seeing strange things form in my mind… signatures that I wrote that day, whole lines of sentences becoming visible, matrix type of code but all zeros simultaneously going up and down. this is worth it though, for my lungs’ sake, since it’s the most open they’ve been in weeks.

I am so happy to breathe again. I went into these serious episode around 7pm where I was incredibly short of breath. that is all I can say for now.

pass the salt

I am a mess; I am getting home: when I went to B&N today, bought a coffee at the counter, said, “can I buy this book here, too?” of course he said. he rang up my coffee and looked at the book I slid towards him, The Trial by Kafka – “oh shit!” he said. “this book is amazing, you’re going to love this.” I was psyched and told him he should check out Dostoevsky. Notes from Underground is a good place to start, or Crime and Punishment.

I am settling down my mind after a long day. I cannot believe I forgot my mother’s birthday. tomorrow will drive out for a visit.

installed 10.3 at work, a few minor kinks I’m working out. had to reinstall printer drivers, epson scanner driver, wacom tablet driver. suitcase X1 has so many kinks in it, I’ve dragged it out of the dock completely and will see if I can get used to using the built in Font Book instead.

the cats are going insane attacking each other and running all over the house. stomach rumbles. it was a cold night last night. the dinner was closed and we wound up back in the old parking garage. my reading and the overall experience suffered from this.

typing this out on Casey’s new G4 iBook – amazing little machine, nice and fast, 12 inches, small, nice feel to the keyboard. she is off on a trip to Boston, leaving me with it for a week to play with, but it is a little depressing with her gone. I was bit by a depressed tick from an early age, so my blood cells constantly look for a reason to be depressed. earlier I thought about writing as real as possibly possible! I mean, in a most speakable language. but of course I like to mix this up a bit, play on words. I like a mixture of please pass the salt and then deeper language. I accidentally just killed a bug that was on the side of the computer. was just trying to brush him off, but it wound up killing him. stupid me. now someone is dead, just like that. makes me feel like hell. maybe my chest congestion that makes me get up in the middle of the night because I can hardly breathe is meant so that I can lose sleep over all the bugs I’ve killed in this lifetime.

I juggle moods at work. people get pissed off easily there, and it’s a wonder I’ve survived it all so far. I think I’ve really grown and become stronger in certain ways. other parts of me suffer and break down a little because of it. break down to become stronger, like muscles. study one thing, realize how it relates to another.

boss talks about how the world is made up of basically good people and that everything is just getting better and better. what really interested me was what he said about technology increasing to the point where everyone will benefit more and 40 hour work weeks will be reduced to 20, and that the wealth will be shared more. I don’t know where he is getting this stuff from. it is easy to say this kind of stuff when you’re well off and not starving on the street.

excited that the weekend is finally here and I can have a little time to while out by myself, collect my thoughts. so… more later.

lunchtime notes

these are the rough days because because. so many interruptions, I can’t see straight, or write straight. does that mean that I am seeing gay and writing gay? a homophobe’s nightmare is gay men raining from the sky. I’m not phased by whoever rains from the sky.

okay, here I am back again, after another interruption. I keep losing my patience. yeah, I should have written this down to start out with but, you know, the gay thing.

what was I thinking?

these are uneasy days. health is toying with me. time tears the fabric. I should have a lock on my door. I should go out to the hardware store, pick one up, and bust out the drill and start making some serious noise so that everyone’s keyboards and monitors are moving in quakes across their desks. this is for you, you bastards. I’m cranky about this. if you know I’m at lunch, this means I am in-visible. you are not paying me during lunch. don’t come to even to chit chat. I liked what this one kid said: “if it’s not work related, don’t speak to me.” this is a good laying down of groundwork.

but I have to put all this in perspective and be thankful I have a job. which leads me to the topic that we are codependent. there was a funny quote that americans are 98% codependent. if the percentage is that high, might as well divide up that pie chart a little more, youngin’. I mean, investigate the different types of codependents, emotionally, physically, etc.

fiend for
pad and pen
I know what
you’re sayin’

I can’t think right now, but you see I’m writing anyway. there’s an idea that “don’t do it unless you know for sure.” I don’t think I’d get off the ground at all like that, but I understand… you do have to be aware of the risks. it’s just that I’d be grounded. I’m not that all seeing knower so I have to go slower but not so slow as to not go at all.

jumping for joy
jumping on the trampoline
spell check jumping on a word
first chance it can get
as a service it doesn’t
charge money for

door creaking like the wind
imaging flaking off the poly plates for some reason unknown
he writes of Kafka’s first sentences starting out in novels
full of life
this should be full of life like that
that’s why this is coming at you from all angles
and you can’t put a label on it
and if you do, the wind comes along and blows it off
so you can say whatever but if there’s
no good heart in it
it doesn’t go beyond that

what was I thinking? daily affirm that life has to be taken under a fine toothed comb. that you have to learn patience and there are plenty of opportunities to test out what you’ve learned. and I’ve been blinking while thinking these good fortunes. when the mind is blank and you can’t think what to write, maybe try trying out lists.

a list can’t miss
only tell what is happening down
at the gas station

a three line stanza
you could say
to fill your time and get you through your day

and old memory, like when I was in Roy Rogers as a small small. how I would ride my bike all over the area when I got older and was allowed to go further out discovering other neighborhoods.

eyes in your eye sockets

chit chatting my small time down to a chopped down tree tree stump that time is video gamed away and in my last breath on my death bed lying on my back facing up to you I can only hope to say that I love you or with my eyes stare through the pain convey a whole life full of intensity. in the meantime old lyrics of automatic writing and late hours grow later, reported events, lists, the thoughts, “your belief system is not as loud as my car system.”

my tape deck is broke therefore tape deck adapter disallows iPod connection so radio vows are strictly held to NPR news and classical chamber jams and sometimes blue grass which she likes which I see all as one blend of the same country or mountain or western that I cannot really stomach but must because I am going for all experiences in this world, even to stand in the rainfall downpours for hours like girls stand with notebooks on class field trips. I instead push further and learn with every grain of me, I forecast, broadcast, overcast heavy fog happenings.

kisses on earlobe. thank you. I am thanking you for being alive but I have history what it tells me that I have to believe it, myths also, that some lives know pain, know only pain, each second is filled with something like eyelids being pulled back and needles poking through them till they are like window screens and their demons get joy for this telling them how nice they look, burning them, burning them over and over again. this you have to run and tell your friends, these men in military uniforms were off duty and enjoying a holiday, standing surrounding a dog, putting a bomb underneath the belly of a dog, igniting it, watching that dog rise slow motion in the air with a surprised look on its face, eyes bulging, blood splattering, body smacking back down to the ground, and the head officer ordering these few men to pull the body out of the way. the body gets pulled up over top of the guts. that is, this is hard to describe, but the body comes to pieces when trying to clean it up, like I am coming to pieces as I write this, this horrid event retold from the dream world. I feel like I am coming to pieces like this, knowing of cruelties. dolphins killed by the masses. killing two birds with one stone. killing a million birds with one stone. it’s like no one is quite left alone. it is why in some ways I am a cynic and get so pissed, because you are not far off from the terrible things I imagine, like for real in news cops kill a dog right in front of its family. pull over. we’re going to kill you because we fucking feel like it. I know there are good cops. you just got me jumpy with this news you keep pumping into the world. it is standard you get admonishments for these behaviors which you probably look upon as much needed vacations. I sometimes cannot help but to think these hells have reservations for you, and the bell boys check your bags and the whole deal.

don’t pry in on me. or spy in on me. satellite’s eye from the sky peering down on me, microphones bug in the lampshade waiting for me to speak certain buzz words, then I will be held custody and is the custom that we have to co-exist with one another and it has become complicated, the most complex lifestyle invented this governmental overpopulated organism. I hear news and it hurts me, and mull over and over news close to home, and it hesitates there in my blood stream a healthy fear of monday mornings filled with work memories and those new stupidities to come, when I could be reading, writing, but more or less feel numb, and they want me to ring little bells and whistles, while in the meantime, little songs of revolution whip through my head, scenarios where I rise victorious if just in creative soulfulness that you will never come to understand in a thousand years for your lack of concern where money isn’t concerned giving you security, comfort, profit. the woman who says all the time she is scared of dogs laments: no one looks in the sky any more. I am looking out for the profound signs that will head butt against the idea that the world is ending with the one that it is just beginning but am wondering if it is really true. I want the ability to sleep sound in the middle of the snow if I really have to, the ability that I would even prefer to. that is how I will survive you, harsh world. that is how you will speak of me to your grand kids. all these things must pass on from one person to the next.

bless you with
eyes in your eye sockets
cherry tomatoes from my garden
hungry thinking of this
pasta dinners
trying to
live a full life
I will not
full of myself
but also refuse
to make less
of myself
life long and strong
stomp around
glide without feet
even touching
the ground
tell you
you are beautiful
in every
freakin’ way
which is
where I find my
and don’t feel
which is
is what I’ve
waiting for

we’ve grown into each other like
a tree is ecstatic and defies
the conventions of this world
grows to the left and right
and back again and
topples the wall
and the wall doesn’t mind
but understands the
whole deal
that even plants
can talk and
sometimes walk
in this
unrestrained world
where scientists
are fools
because they’ve
placed too many
on what
they think
they know
they know things
but those
things grow
and are
on the go
run and tell them
that I said so
I’ll pin this
note on your shirt

“yes the devil exists, but he gets bored with your ass since you have become a devil yourself anyway, and you’ve upset all the kids in class today with your bull shit. you’re being sent home early today, so you can go straight to your room and think about what you’ve done, and old mom can force feed you that lava again and your can feel those shooting pains through your spleen. please don’t act like you don’t know what I mean.”

transmission ends….


it feels good to be back after a few days of rest and silence, and a little strange since it always comes back to a blank page to fill, and to fill it with substance. the slight pressure of that. of course the very first thing is to write no matter what, regardless of whether or not that topic is actually coherent. my mind is reeling with different ideas. speed. digital technology. the soul. death. alien life forms. war. invasions. natural disasters. disease. growing old. alien abductions. global destruction. work. family. video games. books. comic books. music. advancement in mental technologies.


energy flowing through us, us connecting, plugging in, to energy. a key into a car’s ignition – off we go. ignite the ethernet port and we are online. connecting online is really connecting to ourselves. in bed I think about connecting simply with the mind. ordering carry out without even having to call. without having to open your mouth. alien abducties report this, that they were spoken to by beings telepathically.

can barely sleep. energy. connections. how we amass stuff all around us, define our lives with that stuff. non-materialistic people can be forced, tricked into being materialistic, addicted. addictive personalities grabbing one thing to the next.

you work in a mall without a college degree leaving that job for a position in a department store. six months stale into it, you need to move on again. 15 years later you have worked a shift in every store there. artistic hands shake and tremble, no longer paint.

where is your heart in things? tight-ass folks. so normal. so sheltered. I think about race a lot, what it means to be whatever color you are. identity. how you have some sort of place in society. race. class. racism. classism. all the isms. can you save your neck? survive. goals.

time. time runs out. things die, collect dust, deteriorate. I am trying to collect memories. Manuel, Lalita Sundari and me, years back watched a three hour alien abduction documentary one early morning and were so freaked out by the stories and surreal imagery, we stayed up till sunrise. one woman was recounting a story and showing some of her sketches: “first thing I saw was, I looked over and an alien was right in the window looking at me.” the simple little drawing of this was terrifying. especially because it was pitch black out and our own window shade was up and looked very similar to the window in the drawing. I pulled it down pretty quick.

I can suspend belief just for a bit and use my imagination. horror is horror. maybe we enjoy it so much because we are horrified all the time in many different ways, so we also look to it as a form of entertainment when that “nightlife” rolls around. we daydream our nightlives and nightmare our daymares. attack our classmates, pummel them into organic toothpaste.

can’t communicate. I think about how I cannot communicate, how I want to change that. if I cannot understand myself, and communicate with my own self, I won’t be able to do it outwardly, so I know where I have to start. writing is such a good practice to improve upon this communication, but writing is not limited to keyboard input or pen to paper. there are thoughts you have, and some say these thoughts are encased in your very aura, and this is why the more psychically intuned can pick up on these thoughts – they are actually reading your aura. this comes back to connecting. if we are so advanced, shall we not advance further, to bigger and better brains without the use of external CPUs and stereo systems? Doug E. Fresh comes to mind, doing the beat box. I wonder what we are really capable of. what other worlds exist. just what is possible.

but it is getting quite late. please accept these notes kindly. of all the people out there, I’m searching out the kind ones. when I get to them I hope they get my whole deal and are not offput by my idiosyncrasies once I start opening up.

high definitions

a long running water of sentences to deprive forests and energy. this is pain and reward, new life. this nation, whatever. nations. nations based on slavery. under the soil are human faces trampled on the way to getting here, to the current. a currency, a current flow of sentences. we don’t really pick our presidents, they pick us, they get to do what they want to us. there is an undercurrent, undertow, a bad mix, day in and out. explaining a big picture poorly. small pictures are easier. from ten feet away, the window panes are black or dark grey, it gets darker earlier since October, and for now, just a little warmer. different things represent different things. temperatures represent roller-coasters. roller-coaster engineers must have exciting lives. a joke of mine, a scenario, goes something like: a company approaches the mastermind, the builder goes, oh, you want a new roller-coaster, huh? he takes a sheet of paper and scribbles all over it like a 3 year old with crayons, and goes – there’s your goddamn shit right there! this, told late at night, punchy, experiencing low blood sugar, is something otherworldly in my mind’s eye to the point of my wanting to turn all the furniture upside down and create yet more roller-coaster contractor dialogue. it can work with anything. rip the guy’s tie off and throw it in the fireplace, pull it back out. stomp it all into the floor. you want a roller-coaster, huh? there’s your goddamn shit right there!

so, my realm. as much as it can be, this is my space. so sit down. that’s what I have to say to some of these people, be gruff with them, because they choose to push their weight around, because they’re so competitive. my competition with you might be to compare jokes, made up situations about dream-like, “ridiculous,” events to take the sting out of what you esteem to be so real and should be taken so serious. much of the time you come to me all worried with these “impossible” tasks at work and I just laugh them off. other times I have my own struggles with a machine and am not so trouble free.

I’ve been writing out memories lately. it will be good to continue with this, combining it all with the present. in the present I am writing about what comes up right now in the immediate. then I remember old times, ideas, and as you know, jokes. the jokes mix with the old times, because that’s when they were told. and I’ve told the same jokes on numerous occasions in which they’ve had a variety of responses. there is so much life in one thing and is not necessarily old the second, third, or forth time around it’s told. it is the person, the way a person tells it, that can be old, and that goes in this case for even the first time. jokes fall into the blueprint of the world, the blueprint of life, whatever that blueprint is. myself, I don’t know, or get riled up in those “so a guy walks into a bar” kind of jokes. I suppose I’m on and off comedic. at times I feel my mind so simple, all I write is, “I am looking at the wall over there, it is a red wall, when I look out the window I see a boy petting his dog, the boy and dog run over a hill, the grass is still green and it has not snowed. it is a bright red wall. a light brown dog. a fair young boy. a sun in the sky.” and I have to write it with indignation, or what business do I have doing it at all? taking time doing this means the time I have to do other things in life, like finishing up Dostoevsky novels, is replaced. think about that. what you’re doing now is replacing something else. what you’re doing now better be worth it.

I want to go deeply into what that means as person thinking still using his mind but not always focused on broadcasted news in the world. when I do take time for that, I get so pissed when they throw in some gossip about Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck, naturally assuming this is what I’m interested in since I did after all, express an interest in the weather forecast to see if I should wear my jacket outside or not, and I suppose also, as I’m walking down the street bundled up, I should be thinking about JoLo and Bro Bro if they’re going to get married or not, and what kind of party they’ll throw, and imagine, imagine all the ordinary dreams doll houses are pieced together with if they’re available with high bandwidth.

high definition on sheets of drug store notebook paper. pills all over the house prescribed by doctors, and those prescriptions let up once they determined certain disease announcements were unwarranted but are still unaware of what has thrown a wrench in me and is rusting my right leg off. tonight’s pain by the time I got home was tremendous. had vegan ice cream and went straight to bed, woke up for Angel, a brilliant episode, at 9pm. Wesley tricked evil with his bigger heart, let’s put it like that. that shit is real television, not even television, just vision. shows like 7th Heaven attempt the same old patented ideas because they are without vision. and please don’t tell me I’ve started a 7th Heaven flame war. I will let you be the martyr. no need to get bloodied up over shit like that. or over ideas? you think? don’t know how close I’m supposed to hold ideas, how seriously I’m supposed to take them. any of it. a person can be free spirited, rigid, frigid, tight, tense, cold, hot headed, low key, high sprung, gifted, heroic, empowered, or a coward, some or all of it, or dead in the ground none of it, up in heaven above it, in hell below it, in limbo, a ghost all around it. and proud of it. ashamed of it. it’s all about how you use it. time spent in your different vehicles. don’t abuse it.

more on the boy and dog outside under sun
and enjoying each others company, running, playing out there
love, true love, blood healthy in the architecture
of the body flowing through in the color blue until
contact with oxygen, unlike television, not trapped
inside a high school locker.

I was a boy with cats, single child. quiet. a painful awkward batch of decades, little lifetimes, nevertheless still a part of me. something to sigh to. something to admit, something to accept. some things to be glad for. look back and laugh. go to bed and crash.

memory serves introspect

white oleander the movie is amazing with tonight’s viewing after class, and chinese food, wanting to cry at certain parts, because I am there inside the movie at times. I don’t like it right in the middle watching when someone says the book is better, probably no more than when reading the book someone interrupts and says, I hear the movie is better. overhear grocery line talk that they’re anti-book readers and I think I used to be in the same boat. I have so much to be thankful for even if most of it I have not retained in rapid recall memory. deep impressions have been made that I know I’m a part of other things and they’re a part of me. deep connections have been made.

they pull into each other with love stories in their eyes. he breaks down crying before they’re about to engage in the warfare. “I’m about to die. what I want most of all is your companionship. no strings attached or anything like that.”

the heater is turned on number 2 to keep things warm. the big chaos at work is possibly a good sign that money is rolling in, and yes it becomes harder to manage, but at least it is there to mismanage and I can go on paying rent, bills, and whatever else that comes up. another giant branch has fallen, this time in the middle of the yard, not on any cars out on the street. a coworker was nice enough to fix the light in the back of my car for me. lunch was shot up. I kept getting called upon. later they will make it up to me by giving me a phat raise. this is going to happen, right?

the imagination is a powerful thing if you give power to it. I bet you’ve burned more crosses on front lawns than me this year. how do I know? I’ve got none. how’s that working for you? you’ve got me beat. I should know, with my lower I.Q. and gullible tendencies. you’d prefer I slip on something slick and crack my head open till all the stars come out. but I don’t have stars. I’ve got used scrap parts. we don’t say a thing to each other any more. we’re free to think what we think. us assassins. fraternizing cool guys. time you pass and less trust you no further than they can throw you, and this they even prefer to. no one writes you. ain’t sitting by that mail truck lonely? send the kids back their money.

stunned at the keyboard silent tears like Bad Brains lyrics and memories of WUST hall, being ripped off emotionally because being young means you’re a little more susceptible to being victimized, caught in crossfire. stunned stationary stagnant stilled, distilled, chilled, 8 pills a day, more, cancelled, tall glass of water entering this shawshank redemption. all these prisons, these dreams, apartments, compartments, glove boxes, cubby holes, innocents. tie a string around your finger, this month is November. congratulate yourself on what you see sharply through what for others is tree bark, musk, gagging on the strong musk. these words I’m seeing in my head, then I type them out. celebrate the good things. I can make better speeches now, unlike then when it was all happening and overwhelming to tenth degrees and oven fahrenheits generous georges positive pizzas Alexandria and when you travel south and south and south they soon you’ll be at South of The Border, you can buy your bottle rockets there, used to fire them out windows with the lights off at neighbors houses. smack into their front doors they would come running out, we would be laughing our heads ducked down, and in five minutes shoot out more. no pangs of conscience back then. it was that no one else was real enough for us, so we trampled. the world chewed us up good for that, maybe not even that, but chewed us up good. where’s ….? he’s in jail now. what’s up with … these days? he’s robbing radios out of cars. cops tackle their prey to the ground at good camera angles and interviews are extensive bonus pieces on DVDs.

that gang green record I had
shaped like a skateboard
token entry on my walkman
pagan babies, crumb suckers,
social distortion, uniform choice,
uk subs, YOT, misfits, dead milkmen,
wolf pack, side by side, crucial youth
milk colored vinyl, 7 Seconds and
Government Issue on Giant Records
wheaton, md, phatasmagoria records,
marginal man, selling bonzai trees
out of white flint, eating at the vegetable garden
that Insted show, that Swiz show,
Absolution, Chain of Strength at the BBQ Iguana
Carlos, Irene, Andrea, Jeremy Hand,
Calverton Crew Skinheads, Briggs Channey,
agonizing typically human stupidity
plate glass windows, poor decisions
young kids got younger got more dumb
was listening to Boogie Down Produc.
drove a grey chevy
drove around

black circles around my world view

I’m on my second cup of tea in hopes it will do some good with this congestion. this of course has become a typical thing, a chronic condition that I become so weighed down that my lungs go on strike at least ninety percent and I have to put in long hours awake. this is my misfortune, that I wind up thrashed before I go to work because of this. I feel limited. but that’s the way it’s going to be as long as I’m in a physical body. you know those dreams where you open your mouth but no words come out? we feel limited in the waking moments which only gives birth to these magnifications in more personal spaces. our own selves force us to see what we choose to turn away from consciously by route of nightmares. these are not the most clear lessons, but we are strange creatures after all. I feel limited with only two arms. Ananta feels limited and he has thousands of mouths that utter praise… what devotion! I’ve got one throat that gets sore, gets used up like a car part, but can’t be replaced so soon. they say it’s good for about a hundred years, but there are no guarantees – you pay and you’re out the door.

red tea on a sunday night after television, this show Carnivale, finding out now there are only three episodes left for this season. it is amazing, but is not something I go around thinking about throughout the week. only when it comes on does it really hit me, that little dust bowl world, the mystics, the protagonist in his awkward position of not knowing who he really is, waiting for it all to unfold, the depression era, the hard times, the psychics, the freaks, the carnies, the taxed relationships.

have spent some weekend hours drawing on paper and in Adobe Illustrator, getting a little better I think as I go along. if I had more arms, two or three more brains, or perhaps utilized more of my brain capacity, I’d be writing more, would have more ideas, would be posting to Polywogg, Live Journal, writing letters to the Washington Post all the time, writing to Prairie Home Companion, writing letters to Matthew, writing my novel during National Novel Month, doing art projects for school ahead of time, and not even stressing, traveling to several different poetry readings a week, and so on… all while maintaining a full time job as a print specialist, cranking out some seriously ugly business cards because most customers are so stubbornly insistent and managers in the world incredibly backward, socially inept, and lacking high levels of common sense.

I continue pushing. struggling. with life. living. surviving. others are stabbing themselves in the chest. I stay out of that kind of news. I won’t say I don’t understand. I’ll just say I’m not giving up and there are some good things. I’m trying not to go mad.

the shower hose is defunct and will not hold. each time it pops off and the water is lost, I curse at it loudly and darken black circles around my world view. a cold November day and I feel like yelling at something, an inanimate object at random. it does no good. it is better choosing to admit I’m having a hard time, that certain things will not get done right on schedule. the mood swing, health swing, has slowed me down a bit, but at least I’m acknowledging it and am aware. with that on top of me, I’m flailing like Kafka’s beetle upside down giving it my best. someone flip me over.

in my head there’s so much I want to read and reread. so much I’ve read over the years that I’ve read right over! it is certain new discoveries come when we take big ego out of things.

I hardly write out intros about myself. tonight, the idea intrigues me.

only child writes prose/poems, work situations, bitterness, calm calamities, skateboarding achievements and tragedies. quits school at 18 and travels years on and off in ISKCON Krishna movement, digs on philosophy, acquires equivalent diploma, self teaches himself basic graphic design, works nearly 5 years worth different print jobs, color correcting photographs, scanning 35mm slides, plotting posters, ripping 2/3 color plates for small press runs, business packages – buscards, letterheads, envelopes, etc. he knows he is not of this world but is dealing with the confusion that goes along with it, waiting for the third eye to open, or if it is already open, chance is this is what pains the right leg reduced to a steady limp. he has trouble writing summations. where to begin?

I’ve walked that Key Bridge hundreds of times back and forth in the heat and the cold, sometimes crying a little the winds were so high. Georgetown at times has a special feel to it, particularly around Christmas. as a kid growing up, my family started out pretty well off and celebrated this time of year with such gusto! I’d get all kinds of presents. still, it wasn’t so much that as it was the good feel the season brought, or what I had imagined it brought. I’m still not so sure. it is just more stress for some. others make the best of it, or I should say, make it really work for them, and they enjoy themselves. Bill and Meg’s family in Annapolis come to mind. such a nice family. when I would visit they would practically make me feel like I was part of the family, right in there in it with them. so I guess I’m going on a holiday tangent at this point. in Annapolis I was in such a good mood to be there with friends that I would goof off in a major way and sometimes even try everyone’s patience. I can just absolutely insist sometimes that certain jokes get out there. they were setting up a treadmill, I think. what was it? we were watching the workout video or something and making fun of it. that was years back.

May last year (2002) we left DC and pulled into Rocky Mount to watch our families house before they moved in. it was hot, hardly rained, work was nowhere to be found, and I watched a lot of Sci-Fi. is John Edward for real or what? I was really fascinated by that guy at the time. Scholastic Sports became one of the all time lows in employment, and our apartment in the city, Roanoke, was not so hot either, what with all the cigarette smoke seeping in from the apartments above. basic cable in Roanoke, no Sci-Fi, no Steven Speilburg’s Taken, no more Pet Psychic, Crossing Over, or the new Battlestar Gallactica. no big deal. the end of that year we moved two blocks away into this apartment, since laid off and collecting unemployment, relaxing a bit, enjoying the luxury of reading at least one book a week. Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer is amazing. I like it most when I understand what the hell is going on, he does a great job of that. also a great one of flying off into pages and pages indecipherable free verse. you start to get used to it. “oh here comes the free verse again.” when it’s over, the stuff that does make sense is so solid, you’re really loving life. he is an amazing story teller.

it is thirty-three degrees, nearing 1:30 am, and my condition is relaxed. I am thinking about how I am going to end this out, as if like a TV show producer ends an entire series. I must be pretty punchy at this point. I don’t know. it was a good weekend. productive in certain ways. I feel distant from many of my friends, though. I hope they don’t think I’ve dissed them in any way. anything long distance experiences strain or even disuse. it is like a body that needs exercise. put on more weight if you think you can honestly lift it.

expanding the written word

I will be posting in two different journals these days… the live journal stuff will remain as it is, and the Polywogg site will contain more notes substandard. This will especially suit OS X heads as the Poly folks are piecing together a good little application which makes for a good online reading experience, etc., etc.